


trying to be ruthless in the face of beauty (we were born to lose)

by glueskin



Category: Witch's Heart (Video Game)
Genre: Ashe Is Exceptionally Fake And Wilardo Knows, Bath Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Locked In A Cursed Mansion? Have Sex In Your Hosts Expensive Bathtub To Pass The Time!, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Surprise: I Updated With A Second Chapter!, Wilardo Casually Longing For Death, casual mentions of murder, references to past suicide attempts, the downsides of immortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14518050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/pseuds/glueskin
Summary: during their second day at the mansion, ashe approaches wilardo with a thinly veiled proposition. against his better judgement, wilardo accepts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this in my google docs was "wilashe get nasty in sirius' luxurious bathtub" and thats essentially what happens
> 
> please be wary while reading because despite the fact this was intended to just be a pwp, wilardos thought process is not the happiest. there are multiple instances where he thinks back on past suicide attempts, casually considers his own hope that hell be dying soon, and also his willingness to kill if it means hell finally die.
> 
> also vague descriptions of scarring, some of which was brought on by suicide attempts
> 
> advanced apologies for any errors. anyway....uh..... Haha.... enjoy .... ;)

After dinner, Wilardo heads upstairs to sort through some more flowers he’s found before nightfall. It’s easier for him to explore at night, when there’s only Noel awake—well. Noel, and Ashe.  
  
Ashe, who thinks he’s crafted the perfect picture of innocent researcher in far over his head. What a joke.  
  
Ashe, who intercepts him at the top of the staircase, en-route to his room, smiling wide. His expression is convincing enough—bright eyes and a smile that dimples his cheek. If Wilardo were less experienced, he might be fooled.  
  
But he isn’t, so he takes in Ashe’s expression with his own bored face, glancing between where Ashe has stepped in front of him and toward the red door down the hall.  
  
“What is it?” He asks, pointedly staring past Ashe. He was looking forward to relaxing a bit—Claire’s steak had been delicious, but he tends to become drowsy after such a filling meal. His fingers ache with the need to work and he needs the distraction before he continues on what he _really_ came here for.  
  
Ashe keeps smiling, infuriatingly cheerful with his hands folded in his sleeves.  
  
“So sorry to bother you, Wilardo,” he says, in a tone that says he isn’t very sorry at all. “But I heard from Claire about your flowers. I wonder—do you have any extract for the baths? Sirius’ selection leaves _much_ to be desired, but I do believe you seem to be a man of taste.”  
  
Wilardo stares at Ashe, feeling somewhat bewildered—he doesn’t show it on his face, but _really_? It’s such a thinly veiled excuse.  
  
He supposes Ashe thinks he’s being subtle. Maybe he thinks Wilardo to be younger than he is, or at least less likely to grasp what his intentions are; but his gaze dips down past Wilardo’s eyes to take in the rest of his body, if only for a moment. Perhaps if Wilardo hadn’t been expecting this, he might have missed it.  
  
But it isn’t the first time Ashe has stared at him since they met yesterday and he _has_ been expecting it. Not so soon, but he had still been waiting for it to happen.  
  
In his head Wilardo had considered the different ways he might reject him. Ashe is a pretty face, certainly, and it’s likely that the rest of him is pretty too—but his gaze burns like poison in his blood, and his smile stretches too wide and too sharp. Wilardo had no plans on sleeping with a snake in the grass.  
  
And yet.  
  
It’s more tempting than Wilardo would like to admit. It’s been a long time. Sorting flowers isn’t the only way he can distract himself, he supposes, watching as Ashe’s expression just barely begins to falter at Wilardo’s silence.  
  
“Follow me,” Wilardo finally says, stepping around Ashe and heading down the hall. He only barely sees Ashe’s smile come back, immensely satisfied, as he moves past him. He almost sneers to himself, but if Ashe wants to think he’s easy or that he himself is just that smooth, fine.  
  
Ashe’s steps are light behind his. Wilardo heads to his room, fishing the key Sirius had given him from his hoodie; he can feel Ashe’s eyes on him, roaming and acidic. It’s less unpleasant than Wilardo would like to admit.  
  
It’s a coincidence that Wilardo does have any of his oils with him. He always brings some, just in case he runs out of cash and needs to sell to the locals in whatever town he’s visiting on his search—and, of course, he has his own personal stock. Ashe waits, hovering in the doorway and never once looking away from him as Wilardo crouches by his bed and pulls out his travel bag from underneath.  
  
He brings out one of his favorites. Might as well enjoy this, he figures; if all works out as planned, this should be one of his last miserable nights alive.  
  
Ashe stops staring at Wilardo once he’s straightened himself and turned around; he drops his gaze to the jar in Wilardo’s hand instead, the glass gleaming in the dim, red-hued light of the room.  
  
“Oh my! That looks absolutely _professional_ —is it even labeled?” Ashe asks, enthusiastic enough for Wilardo to wonder if it’s more pretense or genuine curiosity.  
  
“Of course it’s professional. I made it myself,” Wilardo says, shoving the bottle in Ashe’s hands as he approaches him. “Read it if you want—don’t drop it or I’ll kill you.”  
  
Ashe laughs like he’s joking. He isn’t. Making bath oils is more time consuming than most people think.  
  
Still, Ashe can think he’s joking. That’s fine. Wilardo closes and locks the door behind them, and when he heads toward the baths, he hears Ashe follow behind him just a slight bit slower than before.  
  
Wilardo doesn’t let himself give Noel’s room a suspicious glance as they pass; the door is shut, the note peeled off, and he suspects that the blonde man is still downstairs with Claire. If not for Ashe’s presence, he might have gone to look inside.  
  
It’s too late to change his mind, though. Not without raising more of Ashe’s own suspicions about him.  
  
The door to the baths opens quietly in spite of the old hinges. He holds it open for Ashe, who has the audacity to wink at him as he steps past.  
  
Grimacing, Wilardo already feels himself starting to regret this—but still he closes the door behind him. The bathroom is oddly cool compared to the rest of the house, and when he turns he sees Ashe toeing out of his shoes and examining the label on the jar of oil carefully.  
  
Wilardo toes out of his own shoes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he waits. Ashe started this, after all; Wilardo isn’t going to make it too easy for him.  
  
After a few moments, Ashe reaches over the edge of the bath to turn the tap; Wilardo follows the movement of his hand and wrist, watching how far he turns the tap toward the hotter end.  
  
Then he looks up at Wilardo, smiling again. He smiles far too much, Wilardo thinks—but it isn’t terribly unpleasant to look at right now.  
  
Over the sound of water rushing into the bath, Ashe confesses rather cheerily, “I thought I’d have to work a bit harder to get you in here, you know. I was pleasantly surprised!”  
  
Wilardo scoffs at his tone, at the way Ashe’s smile scrunches the corners of his eyes in a way that he’s sure is meant to be cute.  
  
“You’re pretty,” he says derisively, his tone factual. “I’m bored. You’re a better distraction than drying and pressing flowers, at least for now.”  
  
Ashe raises one of his hands to his chest, expression twisting into mock-offense.  
  
“You’re such a cruel man, Wilardo—but I suppose I wouldn’t have gone to you if I minded. I’m sure I’ll prove to be a _far_ better distraction than your flowers, you’ll see,” he says, sniffling with exaggerated hurt as he checks the label on the jar again before he begins to unscrew the lid.  
  
Wilardo steps forward to take it from him instead. He doesn’t want Ashe purposefully dumping too much in to annoy him, which seems likely; Ashe pouts at him, but he ignores it, putting the jar by the bath and checking the cupboard above the sink for bath salts and carrier soap. If he has to go back to his room for them, he’s going to be—  
  
No, Sirius has them. The cupboard is so meticulously stocked that Wilardo could probably spend over an hour going through everything, if he cared to.  
  
He takes out the salt and the soap.  
  
Ashe watches him curiously. The bath is only half full, but the rushing water will help it all spread out; he takes Sirius’ toothbrush out of its cup stand, uncaring about the man’s impending irritation should he find out, and mixes some of the salt and soap inside using the handle of Sirius’ toothbrush before reaching for his oils.  
  
He stirs it all together, hyper aware of Ashe’s stare. If he were a few centuries younger, his cheeks might redden at the feeling of being watched so intently, but Wilardo is beyond those base reactions. It takes far more than a burning gaze to make him blush.  
  
It warms something in him, though. A heat itching under his skin, in his gut; perhaps it’s been _too_ long since the last time, if he’s feeling like that already.  
  
He puts Sirius’ toothbrush off to the side of the sink, skirting around Ashe to pour the mixture into the water. He relishes the floral scent that rises as he does—his own blend, full of flowers from a home he hasn’t been to in far too long.  
  
“Goodness, that’s even more pleasant than I was expecting,” Ashe says, leaning in over the bath. His braid slips over his shoulder, brushing against Wilardo’s arm—he carefully doesn’t react as he leans back and returns the toothbrush holder to its place near the sink.  
  
“I’m glad it pleases you, then. But just so you know, I might have bath oils, but no lube. So don’t ask,” Wilardo says succinctly, reaching for his belt and ignoring the fact he’s managed to get Ashe to turn red.  
  
“Getting right to it, are you…? Well, that’s good to know. I didn’t expect anyone to bring any this far into the mountains, besides, and _Sirius_ certainly doesn’t seem to have any…”  
  
Ashe sounds almost embarrassed, though Wilardo wonders at the sincerity of it as he unclasps his belt and undoes his button and zipper. He seems almost surprised, or maybe offended, at their hosts lack of sex life—Wilardo briefly imagines Sirius’ expression should he find out what the two of them are doing in his house, and it’s almost enough to make him smile as he kicks out of his pants and starts pulling his hoodie over his head.  
  
He knows Ashe is watching him, but when he drops the fabric a suitable distance away from the bath, he doesn’t expect to look back to see him staring like that.  
  
Ravenous. His eyes are liquid gold in the light, dark and lidded, his mouth no longer turned up in its too-cheerful mask of a smile.  
  
Wilardo doesn’t shiver or blush, but he might have, once upon a time. His blood burns and his stomach swoops; that alone is telling enough.  
  
Ashe steps closer, barely glancing up at Wilardo’s face before reaching to touch the hem of his dark undershirt. He drags the fabric up slowly, as if waiting for an objection—Wilardo gives none, and Ashe keeps lifting.  
  
Wilardo doesn’t feel any shame about his body, no matter how ugly it’s gotten over the centuries. Scars on his stomach—layers of them overlapping one another, some of them more faded than others—and his chest, too. His arms and his wrists, his back, his legs; all of him is damaged.  
  
Even his throat isn’t untarnished; he had tried to hang himself many times, when he first realized the effect of his curse. It never worked, but those scars are so old that they’re barely visible.  
  
If Ashe is disgusted, he doesn’t show it. He wets the corner of his mouth as he drags the fabric further upward, and that’s enough to get the tiniest of shivers out of Wilardo; the drag of cotton on his skin, the intensity of Ashe’s stare.  
  
“The bath is going to overflow,” Wilardo says, voice rougher than he’d like to admit. Ashe startles and brings his gaze back up to him, smiling again—not as fake and bright as before, but still a bit stiff.  
  
“Of course. I almost got carried away,” Ashe says, his tone and words an apology for an offense he hasn’t caused—Wilardo wants to tell him he doesn’t mind the touching, that if the bath weren’t still running then he would let Ashe undress him and admire him as much as he’d like, but Wilardo holds his tongue.  
  
He hates himself for the longing sentimentality of those thoughts. It seems that despite his best efforts, he can’t stop part of himself from wanting what he hasn’t let himself have in a long, long time.  
  
Wilardo has no allusions as to what it is they’re doing, or to what type of person Ashe is. This is nothing but a way to pass the time for them both. Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
Ashe turns off the tap. Wilardo distracts himself from his own thoughts by tugging his undershirt off on his own, trying not to think of the fact way he had felt Ashe’s warmth through the thin fabric.  
  
Ashe begins to undress as well; with his foreign clothes, Wilardo had wondered at the manner of which he would go about it, but there’s a clasp beneath the collar of his shirt and even more of them hidden beneath the golden lines that go down the front. Wilardo lets himself enjoy that, at least; the careful way Ashe removes the delicate looking fabric, the pale expanse of skin he reveals more of with each clasp undone.  
  
He really is a pretty thing, Wilardo thinks as Ashe shrugs out of the top, folding the shirt carefully over his arm. If he has any scarring, it’s out of sight, and he’s decidedly more fit than he appears when clothed, though Wilardo had expected as much.  
  
Ashe doesn’t comment on his staring, but there’s a slight flush to his cheeks and a twist to his smile as he places his shirt away from the bath, near Wilardo’s hoodie. He says nothing as he moves on to his pants, which come off much easier; he removes them and his underwear in one go before he bends to unroll his socks, and Wilardo enjoys the curve of his unblemished spine and the expanse of his legs.  
  
And his ass. The pants Ashe wore had heavily obscured the soft, curved flesh, which Wilardo finds a dreadful shame; he stares at it now, appreciative, and the pinkness in Ashe’s face darkens when he straightens and sees exactly where Wilardo’s gaze had lingered.  
  
Wilardo thumbs the hem of his own boxers and then tugs them off; no point in wasting anymore time, after all. He’s already feeling too warm, and not entirely because of the heat rising from the bath. Ashe watches looking as hungry as Wilardo is starting to feel.  
  
“No dilly-dallying,” Wilardo says as he steps out of his boxers, dropping a leg into the bath. “The water will get cold, after all.”  
  
“Of course,” Ashe says, voice lilting oddly as Wilardo sinks into the water with a sigh. The hot water eases the aches of some of his worse or more recent scars; if it weren’t for the fact he came here for a different reason, he would let himself relax.  
  
But Ashe follows in after him after a moment, the water level rising as he sinks down; the bath is just large enough to fit them both despite Ashe’s height and the length of his legs.  
  
Wilardo doesn’t notice until Ashe brings his braid over his shoulder, but he’s taken the ribbon out—he begins to methodically disentangle the strands of hair, and Wilardo finds himself restlessly inching forward.  
  
“Let me,” he says, and Ashe looks surprised. Wilardo shouldn’t do this, but it’s an intimacy he’ll allow himself this once; he threads his fingers into the softness of Ashe’s hair and, with practiced ease, begins to gently pull the braid apart.  
  
It’s different from threading together flowers, but close enough. He hasn’t braided—or taken apart someone’s braid—in at least a century, but the movements come easy, and Ashe watches him the entire time.  
  
Wilardo enjoys the simple intimacy of what he’s doing more than he should. If all goes well, this will be one of his last days living, so he allows himself this.  
  
He doesn’t take his eyes off his fingers and Ashe’s hair until he’s done. When he finally lifts his gaze after smoothing out the last tangle of hair, ready to simply tell Ashe he’s finished, the other man moves before he can open his mouth; he lifts a hand out of the water, wetting Wilardo’s cheek when he presses his palm to his skin and leans in.  
  
Wilardo shouldn’t be startled by the action, but he is, even though this is what he came here for. But—he hadn’t been sure what Ashe wanted from him, exactly, and kissing is a type of affection he wasn’t certain would be offered in a one night stand.  
  
But Ashe’s mouth is warm and gentle against his and it’s been so, _so_ long. Wilardo grabs at the length of Ashe’s hair instinctively, leaning in, parting his lips with more eagerness than he should be allowing himself to show.  
  
Ashe says nothing about it, however. He simply slips his hand further back to Wilardo’s neck, licking into his mouth—he tastes like the steak they’d eaten, the citrusy flavor of Claire’s orange garnish lingering strongly. Wilardo finds he doesn’t mind it in the least.  
  
He tugs at Ashe’s hair unintentionally as he tries to tilt his head and simultaneously pull Ashe closer, somehow—Wilardo almost pulls back to apologize, but Ashe makes a noise against his mouth, low and needy in his throat.  
  
_Ah_ , Wilardo thinks, something hot unfurling in his gut as he pushes himself onto Ashe’s thighs. He pulls again, harder, and Ashe whimpers against his mouth and drops his head to Wilardo’s shoulder instead.  
  
“You’re being _mean_ ,” Ashe whines, a hitch in his voice that Wilardo relishes. The words make him smile.  
  
“You said yourself you wouldn’t have approached to me if you disliked such a thing,” Wilardo reminds him, carding his hand through Ashe’s hair closer towards the back of his scalp. He tugs, pulling him away from his throat, and Ashe lets him, gasping.  
  
His face is endearingly flushed, and his eyes go wider at the sight of Wilardo’s own expression; he remembers too late his smile and knows it’s an expression Ashe has yet to see on him.  
  
“You like it,” he says instead of schooling his expression. _It_ being the pain, and Ashe squirms beneath him a bit, trying to press back deeper into the porcelain.  
  
“I like it,” Ashe admits, already sounding a touch breathless. “But I, ah, was expecting this to go a bit differently…”  
  
Wilardo loosens his grip, catching the disappointment in Ashe’s expression when he does. He leans back a little, staring down at him, something allowed only thanks to Wilardo’s position on Ashe’s thighs.  
  
“I don’t mind,” Wilardo says. “If you want to do it that way.” And he doesn’t. Wilardo has never cared about whether he’s in the lead or not; if he had lube, he would gladly let Ashe fuck him and he would enjoy it just as much as he would enjoy being the one to bend him over.  
  
It’s a nice thought. It really is a shame Sirius, if he has any sex life at all, doesn’t keep any of his lube in the baths. One last go of it before he finds his peace—Wilardo wouldn’t object to being spread open, and Ashe would look so pretty with his hair splayed out like a river, red faced and panting.  
  
But they don’t have any lube, and Wilardo may heal quite fast, but he’s no fan of unnecessary pain. So they’re both out of luck in that regard.  
  
Ashe, however, shakes his head and strokes at the back of Wilardo’s neck with fingers Wilardo had forgotten were resting there. The touch is oddly gentle—Ashe can’t know, can’t possibly see the faded edge of rope burns around his throat, but Wilardo is painfully familiar with every single one of his attempts. He can feel the drag of Ashe’s soft fingers at the outline of his scars, and it makes him want to tremble.  
  
It’s a weakness he doesn’t allow himself to show.  
  
“This is good,” Ashe breathes, stroking his fingers. “It’s pretty hot, actually. If I really minded you would know.”  
  
Wilardo doesn’t doubt that. So he kisses Ashe instead of saying anything, less soft and needy and with more teeth as he tightens his grip in Ashe’s hair again.  
  
The noise Ashe makes against his mouth when he pulls harshly is utterly divine; he’s complained to his own thoughts more than once about how loud and talkative Ashe is, but like this, Wilardo doesn’t mind the noise.  
  
Despite the fact it’s been—Wilardo can hardly remember how long, decades at _least_ , but in spite of that it seems he still knows what he’s doing. He can feel Ashe growing harder against his thigh, leaving him no reason to be embarrassed at the speed of which he finds himself getting hard as well.  
  
Between them, the water splashes a bit as Wilardo grinds his hips down, twisting his grip in Ashe’s hair and kissing down his jaw. He moans right into Wilardo’s ear, reflexively gripping the back of Wilardo’s neck—Wilardo rocks his hips down again, harder, teeth dragging down the pretty skin of Ashe’s throat. He wants to hear that noise again.  
  
And he does—louder, this time, Ashe’s voice rising with pleasure. It echoes in the space of the bathroom, and Wilardo freezes, his grip in Ashe’s hair going white-knuckled.  
  
Ashe makes a choked, pitiful noise, hips squirming upward and head lolling to the side to bare more of his throat. Wilardo remains still and silent a moment longer, waiting—but nobody knocks on the door.  
  
“As much as I like those noises,” Wilardo murmurs, pressing his lips close to Ashe’s ear in a mockery of a kiss, “You’d better keep it down. I’d hate for our host to interrupt us, after all.”  
  
Wilardo is relatively certain Claire or Noel would keep quiet if they overheard anything walking past—Sirius, on the other hand…as funny as it is to imagine his reaction, he’s sure the man would be unhappy, and he would loathe the interruption.  
  
Ashe sighs, arching under him.  
  
“I’ll be quiet,” he says breathlessly, “I would hate for our fun to be ruined. So—please—”  
  
_Please_ , he says, high and breathless. It’s one of the hottest things Wilardo has heard in a long time, even if Ashe is only saying it so he’ll keep going.  
  
That’s fine. Wilardo drops his free hand into the water between them, reaching down as he presses his mouth almost gently to Ashe’s fluttering pulse. The man squirms under him, panting, choking on another moan when Wilardo’s fingers curl around the length of his cock.  
  
Wilardo is tempted to look down, to see what Ashe looks like when aroused like this—but the water is murky with salts and oils, so it would be a futile effort. He focuses on mouthing at Ashe’s pulse instead, teeth sinking in just enough to be felt as he twists his wrist and thumbs harshly at the head of Ashe’s cock.  
  
Ashe makes a noise like a whimper and a whine, smothered in his throat as he turns his face into Wilardo’s hair, shaking.  
  
“Wilardo,” Ashe gasps when he does it again, voice cracking; the sound of his name being said so breathlessly with such an edge of desperation—that alone is enough to make Wilardo’s own arousal increase two, threefold.  
  
When was the last time someone had breathed his name with such need? Too long. The memories are frayed at more than just the edges, the sounds of their voices as distorted by time as the details of their faces.  
  
Wilardo has always been far too sentimental. It makes his curse all the more painful.  
  
He doesn’t think about how easy or how difficult it’ll be forgetting a person like Ashe. Instead he thinks about feeling of the water on his skin, of Ashe’s warm breath in his hair, the fingers gripping the nape of his neck.  
  
“I—ah, Wilardo, fuck, I _really_ wish we had lube now,” Ashe chokes out, struggling with each movement of Wilardo’s wrist.  
  
“You’re bigger than I thought,” Wilardo murmurs in response. “Thicker. I’d let you fuck me, if we did.”  
  
The noise Ashe makes at that is barely muffled by the way he shoves his face in Wilardo’s hair.  
  
“You—you would? Fuck, you’d feel so—” Ashe chokes, hiccuping on a noise like a sob as Wilardo drags his thumb over the slit of his cock, teeth sinking deep enough into Ashe’s throat that he draws blood.  
  
Wilardo can taste it, coppery and thick. He can feel the way Ashe trembles, can count each beat of his pulse like this.  
  
It thuds noisily, rapidly, as Ashe writhes and chokes on the moan rising in his throat as he comes. Wilardo can feel it in the water, spilling out into his hand; he belatedly realizes they should have probably actually _bathed_ first, but finds himself not really caring about the waste of water or oils.  
  
Ashe’s grip on the back of his neck loosens, hand slipping as he slumps languidly into the water.  
  
Despite the ache of Wilardo’s own arousal still sitting heavy in his gut, he feels a type of satisfaction he’s only ever achieved when bringing someone else pleasure. Leaning back, the sight of Ashe’s flushed cheeks, dazed eyes and bruising, bleeding throat makes Wilardo smile.  
  
“H-How embarrassing,” Ashe breathes, lifting a wet hand out of the water to cover his face. “To think I’d finish so soon—and before you!”  
  
“I don’t really care,” Wilardo tells him honestly. Frankly, he’s just relieved decades of abstaining hadn’t damaged his own ability to get other people off. “I have more endurance than most, so leave it at that.”  
  
Ashe doesn’t look content to leave it at that, dropping his hand from his face to reach for Wilardo’s hip in the water. His smile is back, a sultry thing that looks far less annoying than his usual expression.  
  
“I daresay we still have enough time to get you taken care of,” Ashe says, leaning up to push Wilardo into the other end of the length of the bath. His hair is a waterfall of color between them, cascading down into the bath—Wilardo allows himself to be pressed back, his own smile lingering, his eyes dark and expectant.  
  
“We’ll see,” he says, lifting his hands to Ashe’s shoulders. “If you can get me off before your allotted bathing time is over, maybe I’ll indulge you again, hm?”  
  
Ashe kisses him yet again, and it’s as pleasant as it had been the first time, made better still by the hand Ashe dips beneath the water to touch him. His stomach, first; he strokes his fingers against Wilardo’s scarred stomach, drawing out a groan that gets smothered by Ashe’s mouth.  
  
Slowly, Ashe drags his fingers further down—from Wilardo’s stomach, then to his thighs, and more slowly to his cock. He touches him with a type of gentleness Wilardo has forgotten, soft yet firm as he curls his fingers around the thick length of him.  
  
Ashe’s hand is softer than Wilardo’s, his palm uncalloused as it drags upward and then back down; Wilardo can’t help but tremble under his touch. If he were years younger, he might squirm, might moan; instead he just breathes deeply and shakily against Ashe’s mouth, feeling the way the other man smiles against his lips as he does.  
  
If Ashe minds how quiet he is, he says nothing. He seems to understand that this alone is plenty of a reaction from him; he continues to stroke Wilardo with a gentle touch that is at odds with everything else about him, about what Wilardo suspects him to be, his mouth trailing kisses that are almost tender down his jaw the way Wilardo had done to him not too long ago.  
  
“It’s a shame you don’t have a high collar,” Ashe breathes against his throat, tugging at him with just enough force to draw a pleased noise from Wilardo’s throat. “Or I might return your earlier…gesture.”  
  
In response, Wilardo merely lolls his head and angles his shoulder up as he lets one of his hands drift once again toward the back of Ashe’s head, threading his fingers into his hair. Ashe makes a sound like a laugh, shoulders shaking for a moment before he shifts to sink his teeth into Wilardo’s scarred shoulder.  
  
It’s enough to make him groan, an audible noise of pain and pleasure both. He feels dizzy from the heat of the bath—warm now, but with a lingering heat that permeates the air—and his own arousal, and Ashe’s teeth are surprisingly sharp as they sink into his skin.  
  
Not deep or hard enough to add to his collection of scars, but deep enough for him to really feel it, deep enough that it will leave a lingering ache for at least several days in spite of Wilardo’s quick healing. It makes satisfaction burn in his gut, and Ashe unclenches his jaw to lap at the bloodied skin.  
  
When he leans back to smile at Wilardo, his lips are red from it, his teeth white behind his lips, eyes gold and dark. _Snake_ , Wilardo thinks, not for the first time, but it cannot be denied what an arousing picture Ashe makes, so he leans in to lick his own blood off Ashe’s mouth.  
  
Ashe hums into it; perhaps he realized that Wilardo feels pain more easily than he does pleasure, because he sinks his teeth into the soft give of Wilardo’s lower lip as he becomes rougher with his hands movements beneath the water.  
  
Wilardo’s moan is a quiet thing, but it’s just loud enough to ring across the room. It’s likely someone might notice, but he can’t find it in him to mind as his lip aches pleasantly. Ashe does it again, harder still after sucking at the skin, and Wilardo has to choke himself on the noise that tries to tear itself out of his throat as he finally comes.  
  
Ashe stops biting in favor of kissing him through it; Wilardo’s grip tightens in Ashe’s hair, tugging as he breathes against Ashe’s mouth and tries not to shake too much.  
  
He always forgets how overwhelmingly good it feels. It takes a few moments longer than it should for Wilardo to come back to himself in the haze of his orgasm, but the expression on Ashe’s face when he leans back is pleased.  
  
“I sincerely hope we haven’t gone over my allotted time,” he breathes above Wilardo, redness lingering in his cheeks, hair sticking damply to his face. “It would be _such_ a shame if you refused to—indulge me, as you put it—another time.”  
  
Wilardo gazes up at him. He thinks about the way Ashe’s hands felt on his skin, and wondered how it might feel to have Ashe pressing him into the mattress of his borrowed bed as opposed to in the porcelain of the bath, and smiles.  
  
“Luckily for you,” Wilardo says loftily, “This was a relatively satisfying encounter. I suppose I wouldn’t mind catering to you again at a later hour.”  
  
Ashe’s gaze lights up with pleasure, but Wilardo ignores him in favor of feeling along the bottom of the bath for the drain plug. He finds it and, when it doesn’t twist off, he presses his palm down before relieving the pressure. Immediately he hears the water begin to rush down the drain, causing Ashe to startle above him.  
  
“Best not to linger,” Wilardo says, grabbing the edge of the bath as Ashe leans away to allow him room to stand. The other man doesn’t bother to pretend he isn’t ogling him as Wilardo climbs out, dripping along the tiled floor. “Make sure everything drains properly, will you? We wouldn’t want to give Claire a heart attack.”  
  
“No, we wouldn’t,” Ashe agrees faintly. The water splashes as he stands, too, and Wilardo doesn’t look back as he begins to dry himself with one of the many expensive looking towels Sirius had hung on the rack for their use.  
  
The thick, soft cotton is good quality—the drag of it doesn’t irritate the more tender of his scars and, since he’s already allowed himself a truly stunning amount of indulgence tonight, Wilardo lets himself take his time in drying off.  
  
Ashe leaves him alone as he does—likely not wanting to ruin his future prospects by annoying Wilardo with unnecessary chatter—and Wilardo appreciates it. It allows him to compartmentalize his choice, knowing that it’s unlikely that _both_ of them will leave this accursed Witch’s Mansion alive.  
  
Wilardo doesn’t feel any regret over the choice to return Ashe’s proposition. He feels only resignation for how this is all likely to go—he has no allusions as to what it is Ashe is after in this place. They both search for the Witch’s Heart, and Wilardo knows that if Ashe should find it, he’ll kill him.  
  
He won’t enjoy it. He’s never enjoyed it. But if it means he’ll finally close his eyes without waking up to another day in this wretched, cursed body—  
  
Well. Wilardo has come this far, after all. If he has to kill Ashe—if he has to kill everyone in this mansion—he will.  
  
So he feels no regret as he finishes drying himself off. His hair sticks damply to the back of his neck and to his cheeks, still, but he doesn’t care to linger forcing it to dry more thoroughly. He dresses himself instead, and when he finishes Ashe has taken to wringing out the thick length of his hair over the bath to make it easier for him to towel dry it.  
  
“I’ll be heading out,” Wilardo says. “I’ll let Claire know you’re almost finished.”  
  
“Oh, will you? I appreciate it. I can dry my hair properly in my room, so I won’t be long. Thank you,” Ashe adds, straightening his posture with a smile as he drifts towards the towel rack.  
  
Wilardo reaches for the door, pausing only for a moment as he twists the knob. Despite the softer, more sentimental part of him aching for it, he speaks anyway.  
  
“I’ll leave my door open tonight, if you require more _indulgence_ ,” Wilardo says, not bothering to even look back as he wrenches the door open to leave.  
  
Closing it behind him doesn’t prevent him from hearing Ashe’s eager _Then I’ll see you tonight, Wilardo!_  
  
He gives himself only a moment to breathe the cooler air of the mansion hallway. At this hour, those strange creatures have made themselves visible again—he feels oddly as though he’s being judged as one oozes out of the wall, a mass of red, vaguely humanoid flesh that stares at him with a single dark eye. Its other eyeball seems to be dangling from its face, though it has no eye sockets.  
  
Grimacing with disgust, Wilardo ignores its harsh stare and heads toward the staircase. He’ll let Claire know the bath is free, head back to his room, and maybe—since he’s allowing himself so much—he’ll have a drink.  
  
He needs at least one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wilardo makes good on his promise to further indulge ashe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "wasnt this meant to be a one shot" yeah but i wanted wilardo to get fucked. i wrote this ages ago but never got around to posting it
> 
> uh....typical wilardo narrative warnings, same as the first chapter. he also drinks like a whole bottle of wine but doesnt get intoxicated from it. ashe doesnt shut up during sex. i didnt want to add a bunch of tags or else itll start sounding like some f-list profile but: anal sex, anal fingering, blowjobs, dirty talk i guess.

Wilardo makes good on his word to let Claire know the bath is free—he feels almost bad, interrupting her and Noel’s conversation. Noel’s expression twists with longing misery every time Claire isn’t looking at him, and it would be pathetic if Wilardo didn’t understand it so well.  
  
Neither of them mention the fact his hair is damp, despite the look they share over it. He’s grateful for that small mercy.  
  
After, he heads up to his room. The door to the bath is slightly ajar when he passes and Ashe’s door is closed—he can hear some shuffling and humming as he walks by, but he doesn’t pause in his steps. As soon as Wilardo has his door closed behind him, he heads for the rack of wine bottles along the wall.  
  
_I can’t fucking believe this_ , he thinks, disgusted with himself for giving in to Ashe so easily as he glances along the nearby dresser for a bottle opener. There is one, thankfully, and he cracks open one of the old wine bottles with ease as he remembers Ashe saying he would see him tonight.  
  
His shoulder throbs dully, a reminder of what they had done and what Wilardo had agreed to do again. He runs his tongue along his lower lip, feeling the sting of pain where the skin had been broken by Ashe’s teeth—how nice it had felt to be pushed back into the porcelain of the bath, the water sloshing between them, the hungry look in Ashe’s eyes.  
  
Annoyed with himself, Wilardo lifts the bottle and drinks. He’s never been overly fond of wine, but the sour taste of it slides down his throat, the heat of it a shoddy replacement for the arousal he had felt burning through him not long ago.  
  
He drinks a good quarter of the bottle in one go, slamming it down onto the table with his discarded flowers and books once he’s done.  
  
At a time like this, Wilardo wishes he were a lightweight. Maybe if he could get drunk off his ass then Ashe wouldn’t want to bother with him—or maybe Wilardo would fall asleep in a pile of wasted misery, useless to the world, and he would be unable to let himself do this.  
  
But he had been the one to offer. The hunger Ashe had displayed for him, the long-buried wants that had come rushing to the surface for Wilardo as he squirmed beneath him—  
  
“Fuck,” he groans aloud, slapping his hand on the table and wishing he were dead already. The arousal is starting to come back again and he grabs the bottle of wine again, downing more than half of what is left out of sheer anger with himself.  
  
After, he checks checks the analog clock hanging on the wall for the time. Ashe likely won’t come to his room for at least an hour or two—not until the others have all had their turns bathing and have turned in for the night. Wilardo closes his eyes, dragging a hand down his face.  
  
He can back out. Ashe will be disappointed but won’t push the issue—or if he does, Wilardo will kick his ass and that’ll be the end of it.  
  
But he doesn’t want to. Wilardo _wants him_ and now that he’s alone with his thoughts he knows he should never have let himself give in one last time.  
  
But he did let himself, and now he’s going to live—unfortunately—with the consequences. Leaving the bottle of wine on the table, he makes his decision and heads towards his rooms adjacent bathroom.  
  
After, he finds himself digging through his bag. Wilardo wasn’t lying when he told Ashe he doesn’t have lube, but he has plenty of oils and almost all of them can work as a substitute—not as effective as proper lube, of course, meaning he has to take his time getting ready, but he can do that.  
  
He feels more than a little pathetic as he kicks out of his shoes, climbing onto his bed and shucking his pants down as he uncaps a bottle of oils meant for massages, wetting his fingers. He can’t remember the last time he did this to himself, let alone had anyone do it to him—fifty, sixty years? Maybe less, maybe more.  
  
The years blur together. He vaguely remembers the northern continent, the inn that had been snowed in, the bartender with his soft eyes and the beauty mark by his mouth—or had he been the innkeeps son, or was he a fellow guest—  
  
Wilardo shoves his face into his pillow, groaning, thinking about Ashe instead. It comes with less guilt than the blurry faces of the past who have, after all this time, become muddled together. Ashe is in the present—he’s here, now, he has a fake smile and long hair and gold eyes like the damn snake he is, but he’s not cold-blooded. He’s warm and his fingers had been hot against Wilardo’s skin, and that’s what he thinks about as he slides a finger inside of himself.  
  
Ashe’s hands, warm on his stomach. His touch deceptively gentle despite all the cruelty Wilardo knows is inside him, the ruthless willingness to do whatever it takes to get what he came here for. Wilardo hates that that’s part of what attracted him to the man.  
  
When he slides in a second finger Wilardo is remembering the look on Ashe’s face as he touched Wilardo’s scars, the complete lack of disgust. He had only looked wanting, and Wilardo’s whole body feels hot at the memory of it—so clear, so fresh, unlike Wilardo’s memories of years past. Hell, he can barely remember last _week_.  
  
_Don’t think about that_ , he reminds himself, thinking about the ache in his shoulder and the sting in his lip instead. Wilardo bites down where Ashe had barely an hour ago, feels the sharp throb of pain as he squirms his two fingers deeper into himself, thighs parting further as he cants his hips to to find a better angle.  
  
He’s getting hard, now, but Wilardo ignores it. This isn’t about getting off—not yet. He thinks about Ashe’s fingers, thinner than his but longer, and what they might feel like inside him instead. He muffles his moan with the pillow, tasting cotton, hating how much he wishes he had just dragged Ashe right to his room instead so he could know.  
  
It’s getting difficult to move his fingers, so he pulls them out with reluctance, forcing himself to sit up enough so he can spill more oil out onto his fingers. His hand shakes when he does and he ends up spilling enough that it sloshes out onto the bed, making him curse in annoyance.  
  
It’s only a bit, though. Not an absurd amount, and Wilardo had expected to get the bedding dirty anyway, so he ignores it as he slips those two fingers back inside himself. He’s beginning to feel smothered by his hoodie, the heat of his arousal making him sweat, but he’ll deal with that after—for now he fits a third finger inside, wondering again about Ashe’s hands.  
  
He could probably reach deep into Wilardo with ease. It’s not easy for him to get a good angle, to go deep inside, and it takes more effort than he generally cares to put in—but Ashe, fuck, he could probably spread Wilardo open and slip his fingers in far enough to rub against his prostate without any trouble, and the thought makes Wilardo’s breathing ragged.  
  
He loses track of time, as he tends to do—but it slips away from him far easier than it should as he spreads himself out on his bed and works himself open so that time won’t be wasted later. Wilardo knew he had wanted this from the moment he had settled above Ashe in the bath, and his thoughts become hazy as he pants into his bedding and wonders if he should try for four fingers.  
  
Wilardo’s sweater is truly becoming suffocating, so he reluctantly removes his fingers so he can peel it off, grimacing at the feeling of cotton trying to cling to his sweaty skin. He might have to sneak in a shower in the morning, or—no, he definitely will, given what he plans on doing soon.  
  
He discards his hoodie at the foot of the bed, about to reach for more oil when he hears someone knocking on his door. Wilardo glances up at the clock, bewildered, and is stunned to see it’s already almost midnight.  
  
“One second,” he calls out, hating the low rasp in his voice as he caps the bottle of oil to put by his pillow. It takes more than just a second to fix himself enough to look like he hasn’t been fingering himself for almost an hour, pulling up his pants and smoothing out his undershirt.  
  
The only mirror is in the bathroom—he doesn’t take the time to see if his face is red or not. He dries his fingers on the bed, pushing his hair out of his eyes and heading towards the door.  
  
It is, of course, Ashe. He’s dressed more comfortably as if for sleeping, in loose pants and a shorter sleeved shirt, his hair still out of its braid and falling down his back, some of it slipping over his shoulder—he looks beautiful and the fact is utterly infuriating.  
  
“Good evening, Wilardo!” Ashe says cheerfully, not all perturbed by how unfortunate Wilardo must look.  
  
“Yes, yes,” Wilardo mutters, voice rougher than it would ordinarily be as he steps back to let the other in.  
  
“Oh? Were you drinking without me? No wonder you seem a bit pink—I hope you didn’t drink enough to bore me!”  
  
“I’m no lightweight, asshole,” Wilardo snaps, closing the door behind Ashe and grabbing his arm to steer him away from the alcohol. He’s not in the mood for more drinking, and certainly not for _Ashe_ drinking.  
  
“Of course not, of course not,” Ashe placates, a laugh in his voice. “You really want to get right to it? How cute.”  
  
Wilardo groans, shoving him into the bed and feeling nothing but annoyance and reluctant arousal as Ashe laughs and lets his knees hit the mattress as he falls face-first onto the bedding.  
  
“Do you want me to punch you, or ride you? I’m really leaning towards punching you,” Wilardo says.  
  
Ashe, turning over on his side, his hair a vivid wash of color against the red of Wilardo’s sheets, smiles cheekily up at him.  
  
“Why not both?” He proposes, and Wilardo hates him. At this angle, he can see the bruising across the delicate skin of Ashe’s throat and he wants to sink his teeth in all over again.  
  
Jaw clenching, Wilardo climbs into his lap the way he had earlier, straddling his thighs and grasping his face in his hands. Ashe leans in to the touch, sighing as Wilardo’s fingers slip into his hair, parting his lips as Wilardo bows his head to kiss him.  
  
He lets it begin soft, despite the frustration that’s been simmering beneath his skin this past hour. Ashe makes a quiet noise against him, grasping at his shoulders, pulling him closer as Wilardo licks into his open mouth.  
  
The frustration gives way to arousal—Wilardo is reminded of the fact he hadn’t touched himself at all, but he still doesn’t give in to the desire to rut down against Ashe, to pull Ashe’s pants down his hips and sink onto his cock the way he’s wanted to since the bath.  
  
Wilardo keeps kissing him instead, gently scraping his nails along Ashe’s scalp, hungrily swallowing every noise Ashe makes against his mouth.  
  
Ashe, who drops one of his hands to Wilardo’s hip, sliding his hand beneath the thin fabric of his undershirt. His touch feels even better than it had in the bath—dry instead of damp, soft skin sliding against the raised flesh of Wilardo’s scarred abdomen.  
  
God, it’s been so long. The bartender at the inn had been to anxious at the sight of his scars to touch them, so Wilardo had left his clothes on—the merchant he had hitched a ride across the border with once had been disgusted—the librarian he had spent time with while researching his curse had only looked pitying—  
  
_Don’t think about it_ , he reminds himself again, focusing on the moan that rises up in Ashe’s throat when he sucks at his lip, the way his hips jerk up into Wilardo’s involuntarily, palm dragging more harshly over Wilardo’s ribs. It makes his skin crawl, makes him want to shiver the way he had been tempted to in the bath, but he doesn’t.  
  
His lungs ache, and if his are then Ashe’s must be _burning_ , so Wilardo stops kissing him in favor of breathing; Ashe nuzzles into his hair, sighing, fingers splaying over an old burn above Wilardo’s ribs.  
  
“The wine tastes good,” Ashe murmurs breathlessly into his hair, giggling and shivering with an arched spine when Wilardo’s nails scrape delicately down his nape.  
  
“So do you,” Wilardo admits, just as breathless as he kisses down Ashe’s throat, tongue dragging across his bruising skin. His throat aches with his admission, hating himself for it even as he relishes the breathless gasps Ashe makes as he scrapes his teeth along the soft skin.  
  
He keeps going. He wants to spend forever just marking Ashe’s throat, but instead he gradually makes his way downward, sliding up the fabric of Ashe’s shirt as he shimmies downward.  
  
Ashe doesn’t protest. He watches Wilardo’s movements with a gaze as ravenous as it had been in the baths, gold and bright. In the rooms dim light, red-hued from the wallpaper, Ashe looks as dangerous as he pretends he isn’t—it makes the heat in Wilardo’s gut churn as he drags his mouth down Ashe’s stomach, tongue dipping into the other man’s navel.  
  
Ashe shivers, breath hitching, hips stuttering upward as Wilardo hums and sucks a bruise into the skin of Ashe’s stomach, earning another giggle that breaks off into a moan as Ashe squirms. Wilardo grips his hips to keep him somewhat still, smiling against the skin.  
  
“Ti-Ticklish, Wil—ah!” Ashe tries to speak, but just ends up gasping again as Wilardo sucks harder at the skin.  
  
He laps at the sore skin, slipping his fingers into the waistband of Ashe’s pants as he shimmies back further. Ashe lifts his hips obligingly, eyes brighter than ever before, and it isn’t a surprise to see that he isn’t wearing anything beneath his pants.  
  
Wilardo doesn’t wait to properly remove Ashe’s pants. The sight of his half-hard cock is too much—he bows his head and takes him into his mouth.  
  
“Wilardo, are you seriously— _oh, fuck_ —” Ashe tries to speak as he leans forward, breaking off into a heaving gasp as Wilardo takes the entirety of him in his mouth. He can feel Ashe getting harder as he rubs his tongue along the underside of his growing arousal, moaning as feels Ashe swell in his mouth.  
  
Wilardo had forgotten how much he enjoys this. His jaw begins to ache the harder Ashe gets, the more difficult it becomes for Wilardo to fit the entirety of him in his mouth—but still he keeps his mouth on him, around him, and Ashe’s fingers find their way into his hair, gripping as he jerks his hips upward.  
  
Whether it was intentional or not, Wilardo chokes on his moan as Ashe’s cock hits the back of his throat, eyes watering.  
  
If Ashe is thinking about apologizing, he doesn’t get the chance—Wilardo pulls back only enough to breathe in before easing his throat and taking Ashe in deep, until Wilardo’s nose is pressing into coarse hair and all he can smell and taste is the lingering floral scent of bath oils and the saltiness of Ashe spilling precum in his mouth.  
  
The arousal Wilardo has been ignoring for so long now aches harshly between his legs, but he continues to ignore it, swallowing tightly around Ashe’s dick and relishing the pain in his throat and jaw.  
  
_Masochist_ , part of him despairs over himself, and he remembers distantly the last time he had done this, the last time someone had been been rough with him. Ashe seems to understand—he doesn’t apologize, just groans out Wilardo’s name and fucks into his mouth the way Wilardo has always found himself guiltily loving.  
  
He grips hard at Ashe’s hips, feeling himself beginning to drool around him, eyes burning, throat stinging. He glances up, trying to see through his watery eyes and fringe, and Ashe is watching him—red faced, hair sticking to his cheeks, teeth digging into his lip as he stares down at him.  
  
It turns Wilardo on even more, being looked at with so much desire. He loosens his grip on Ashe’s hips and immediately the grip on his hair loosens, too, letting him pull his mouth off Ashe’s dick. Wilardo sucks in a breath, feeling the burn in his throat, licking a smear of precum off his mouth.  
  
“As much as I’d like to suck you dry,” Wilardo breathes out, adoring the pained, rasping undertone of his own voice, “I’ve got other plans.”  
  
“Yeah?” Ashe asks lowly, staring at his mouth. “What kind of plans, huh?”  
  
Wilardo smiles. It hurts his lips but it feels good, so good, as he sits himself up and starts pushing his pants down from his hips.  
  
Ashe watches the movement. Wilardo shoves his pants to the end of the bed, climbing back onto Ashe’s thighs—he takes his hand, and Ashe lets him, looking curious as Wilardo guides it between his thighs, past his own aching, leaking cock and towards his ass.  
  
Ashe’s eyes go wide in surprise as he feels the dampness there, mouth stretching into one of his horrendously obnoxious smiles.  
  
“Didn’t you say,” he starts, and Wilardo interrupts.  
  
“No lube? I wasn’t lying. But a lot of my oils are a less…effective substitute,” he admits, and Ashe slips not one but two of his fingers inside him, looking fascinated as Wilardo gasps and rocks down into them.  
  
“Eager,” Ashe murmurs, sounding delighted as he hooks his fingers deep inside. “And so _wet_. I can’t believe you, Wilardo…is this what you were doing when I showed up? Getting yourself nice and ready for me…?”  
  
The teasing lilt of his voice is infuriating, but Wilardo can’t help but pant and rock his hips down against those amazingly long fingers. He was right—they reach so much deeper than his own, and Ashe rubs his fingers further in. Wilardo hadn’t been able to earlier, hadn’t even tried, and when Ashe’s fingers press into his prostate the noise he lets out is helplessly wanton.  
  
“Oh, I could do this for _hours_ ,” Ashe breathes. “Look at you.”  
  
“Enough—Enough teasing,” Wilardo pants, pressing his hand down on Ashe’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t you rather have your dick in me? We don’t have all night.”  
  
“I think we do,” Ashe disagrees, smile shifting into something sharper as he rubs his fingers in harshly. Wilardo’s gasp breaks into a low moan, abdomen tightening as he spills precum against Ashe’s stomach.  
  
“You—ah—fucking _bastard_ , I’ve waited long enough,” Wilardo grits out, trying not to make too much noise. It was easier to be quiet in the baths, the water dulling a lot of the physical sensation, but now his thighs and arms both tremble as Ashe scissors his fingers.  
  
“I bet. Did you spend all that time in bed, fingering yourself? You should have let me watch,” Ashe says, and Wilardo’s whole body aches with the thought of it, of Ashe looking at him the way he is now as Wilardo spread himself open.  
  
“I didn’t want to waste time,” Wilardo huffs, squirming his hips down, and Ashe smiles and slips his fingers out. Wilardo doesn’t whine, but it’s a close thing.  
  
“You’re so _cute_ ,” Ashe says, tugging him downward, his erection slipping between Wilardo’s thighs and rubbing against the cleft of his ass.  
  
Wilardo digs his teeth into his lip, feeling the sting of pain where Ashe had broken the skin earlier. _I’m not_ , he doesn’t say, rocking down, and Ashe’s smile is indulgent as he grips at Wilardo’s hips and pulls him down onto his cock.  
  
The stretch of him, even just the head, is enough to make Wilardo inhale sharply through his nose. He wants to drop down onto him entirely—wants Ashe to pull him down harshly—but the way Ashe watches as he slowly sinks down is too good to pass up, so he takes his time.  
  
It’s a good thing he does. Logically, he knows that. It’s been far, far too long and he knows that even with all the time he spent on himself it wasn’t enough, not without proper lubricant.  
  
But the burning stretch isn’t unpleasant. He loves it, loves the gradual feeling of being filled in a way he hasn’t been in so long—he’d forgotten, just like he had with everything else, how good it feels. It helps that Ashe is digging his fingers into his hips, looking up at him with such arousing intensity.  
  
One of Ashe’s hands slides upward as Wilardo sinks down, gasping. It slips beneath the thin fabric of his undershirt yet again, the dark fabric sticking somewhat with sweat, and this time Wilardo can’t stop the shiver that comes over him at the feeling of Ashe’s palm gliding over his scarred stomach.  
  
“You’d look so much better without that on, you know,” Ashe says, and Wilardo groans, digging his fingers into Ashe’s shoulders as he finally finds himself properly full.  
  
“You could just— _ask_ ,” Wilardo chokes out, throat aching. Ashe smiles up at him, waiting, and Wilardo’s fingers flex against his shoulders before he shakily pulls them back so he can peel his shirt off.  
  
Just like in the bath, Ashe shows no disgust. He’s curious, Wilardo knows, but mostly he’s wanting, wetting his lips at the sight of Wilardo’s bare torso.  
  
Wilardo drops the shirt off the side of the bed, uncaring, and Ashe keeps pushing his hands further upward from Wilardo’s stomach to his ribs and then to his chest. The drag of someone else’s hands against his scarred flesh makes him curl over Ashe, trembling and trying not to gasp, stomach churning hotly.  
  
“I love how responsive you are,” Ashe says, fascinated and delighted as he thumbs at Wilardo’s nipples. One of them is a damaged thing, the flesh scarred from an old burn, but Ashe doesn’t seem to care as he rubs against them harshly.  
  
Wilardo can’t help the noise he makes, the ragged gasp of a moan that tears out of his aching throat. Ashe arches his hips, grinding up into him, and it feels so good that it might as well be painful.  
  
“Pretty,” Ashe gasps under him, when _he’s_ the pretty one, his hair a halo of blue against the red of Wilardo’s pillowcase. Wilardo’s thighs ache as he lifts himself up slowly, skin crawling as Ashe refuses to stop rubbing his chest, and then sinking back down with a harsh groan.  
  
The drag of his cock inside him, the feeling of his hands on his chest—Wilardo swallows back a whimper and Ashe notices, because of course he does.  
  
“Has it been that long?” He asks, his smile as unpleasant as ever. “Or are you always this sensitive?”  
  
Wilardo wants to punch him again. Mostly he wants to keep going, so he sneers halfheartedly in response as he rocks his hips and tries not to moan again.  
  
“You look so good above me,” Ashe groans out when Wilardo rocks down onto him, each movement accompanied by the lewd sound of skin sliding together wetly. “It makes me, ah, wonder about you _under_ me—”  
  
Wilardo remembers being under him in the bath, remembers how he’d liked it, and Ashe chokes back a low noise of his own as Wilardo tightens around him at the memory.  
  
“God, you’re already so _tight_ , doing that is—” Ashe cuts himself off with another groan as Wilardo lifts himself off him almost entirely to drop back down, arms shaking.  
  
He curses. It isn’t like he’s weak, but he’d forgotten how exhausting sex can be, how weak-limbed he becomes when someone is fucking him.  
  
“Having trouble?” Ashe asks, a laugh in his tone, and Wilardo doesn’t answer, focusing on the aching fullness inside him and the painful arousal in his abdomen. He’s about to lift himself again when Ashe’s hand’s move from his chest downward, one settling at his hip and the other wrapping around his leaking cock.  
  
“Don’t,” Wilardo pants, trying to bat his hand away—he doesn’t want to come, not yet, but even his endurance has its limits.  
  
“Why not? You’ve been so good tonight, I want to see you come apart above me,” Ashe says, and God, that shouldn’t make Wilardo want to let go but it _does_. Ashe squeezes him not at all gently, thumbing his swollen and leaking cockhead, and it’s with a reluctant strangled gasp of Ashe’s name that Wilardo spills out into his fist and against his clothed stomach.  
  
“That’s good,” Ashe breathes, stroking him through it. Wilardo trembles above him, tightening around him, forcing himself not to close his eyes as he takes in Ashe’s expression—how he doesn’t look away from him, how utterly _enthralled_ he seems just watching Wilardo make a mess of himself like this.  
  
“You’re a bastard,” Wilardo chokes out when he’s done, and Ashe’s smile deceptively soft.  
  
“I know. Can you keep going?” He asks, tilting his hips and tugging on Wilardo’s simultaneously; he can’t hold back the sound he makes, a needy, desperate thing as he squirms above Ashe.  
  
“I - I can,” he says, breathing harshly as he grips at Ashe’s shoulders again. “It takes more than this to tire me out, asshole.”  
  
Ashe, his eyes fever-bright and pleased, smiles wider as Wilardo grabs his dirtied hand, lifting it to his mouth. Ashe tracks his movement, breath hitching as Wilardo cleans the mess off his skin, relishing the bitter taste of himself against Ashe’s skin.  
  
“I truly never expected this from you, Wilardo,” Ashe says, sounding truly pleased. “You’re as gross as I am.”  
  
_Shut up_ , Wilardo thinks, rolling his eyes as he licks down Ashe’s palm. He’d like to say it’s because he doesn’t want the mess wiped onto the bed, but that would be a lie. Wilardo doesn’t care about the bed.  
  
He lets out a ragged exhale as he drops Ashe’s cleaned hand, gripping his shoulders again as he pushes himself upward. Hypersensitive in the wake of his orgasm, the pleasure might as well be pain, a sharp edge coming in to his gasp.  
  
Still, he can move himself. Even if his arms tremble and his thighs ache, Wilardo continues, and Ashe lets him—in fact, he does nothing but keep his hands on Wilardo’s hips, his touch scalding but still.  
  
“You’re getting hard again,” Ashe says, his tone almost sing-song despite the breathless air of it. “Just fucking yourself on my cock. You really are something, Wilardo.”  
  
“Shut _up_ ,” Wilardo rasps aloud this time, curving his spine to press their mouths together to make sure Ashe actually will.  
  
Ashe laughs into it but kisses him back, lifting one of his hands from Wilardo’s hips to his hair, fisting his hands in the dark locks. His hair piece digs into his scalp but Wilardo doesn’t protest, groaning in pleasure and discomfort both.  
  
They stay like that—kissing messily, breathing into each other’s mouths as Wilardo grinds down onto him harshly, the heat in him rising to a boil yet again.  
  
Ashe can’t last much longer, Wilardo knows. And he won’t last long, either—Ashe is stroking him into full hardness with the hand that isn’t in his hair, swallowing the noises Wilardo makes with enthusiasm. The fingers in his hair slide down his back, fingers dragging down the knobs of his spine and an uneven patch of burn scars; it stops at his backside, kneading into the flesh as Wilardo chokes on a surprised noise and drops his face into Ashe’s throat.  
  
“Almost,” Ashe says breathlessly against Wilardo’s ear, breath warm and tone almost strained. “How do you want it?”  
  
Wilardo knows what he’s asking. It’s surprising that he bothered, but Wilardo doesn’t have to think about it—he already knows.  
  
“Inside,” he pants out, gripping Ashe’s shoulders so tightly that his fingers ache from it. Ashe looks genuinely startled, but a pleased grin stretches across his mouth—Wilardo knows most people don’t like it, but he always has.  
  
It’s that sentimentality again, the illusion of being close—connected—and he knows this will make it more difficult for him to do what he has to, but still. Ashe says nothing, not even another comment about how gross Wilardo is; he simply leans up to kiss him, and Wilardo meets him halfway. There’s a softness to it, the way there had been to that first kiss in the bath, and Wilardo’s heart aches over it.  
  
It doesn’t take much longer. Ashe strokes him until he spills between them again, and the way Wilardo tightens around him and moans into his mouth has Ashe filling him with wet heat, groaning against him and gripping his hip tightly. Even in the midst of his own pleasure, he doesn’t stop stroking Wilardo through his own.  
  
By the end of it, all Wilardo can do is drop his face to Ashe’s shoulder, struggling to breathe; he can hear Ashe panting at his ear, can feel the warmth of his breath, and Wilardo doesn’t want the moment to end.  
  
But it has to. He pulls himself up, still seated on Ashe’s thighs—he can feel his cock softening inside of him, but he still doesn’t want to get off, not yet. Wilardo forces himself to look at Ashe; at his face, the red flush clinging to his cheeks and crawling down his neck, the way his eyes are shining from pleasure, the cascade of soft hair splayed across the bedding.  
  
In the dim, red light, with his eyes gold and gleaming, Wilardo thinks he looks far too beautiful. But he looks anyway, drinking in every stray lock of hair, the heaving rise and fall of his chest.  
  
_I don’t want to kill you_ , Wilardo thinks, and it’s true. He doesn’t. He never wants to kill anyone. But he knows what Ashe is here for, and he knows that if it comes down to it, he will. He hopes, desperately, that the Heart is here—that he won’t live another year, let alone another century, that Ashe won’t become another memory that blurs together with all the others.  
  
“You’re staring,” Ashe says, and Wilardo blinks down at him. Ashe is smiling, and it’s almost soft, not like the knife-sharp expressions he usually wears—he lifts the hand that had been at Wilardo’s hip, touching his fingers to Wilardo’s cheek, and draws him down for a kiss.  
  
Wilardo lets him. Maybe Ashe is thinking the same thing as he is, because he surely knows what Wilardo came to this place for. Regardless, he lets himself savor the gentle pressure of their open mouths, the warm slide of Ashe’s tongue.  
  
Ashe’s other hand is at his back again, stroking, and this is a moment neither of them should allow themselves to have. Ashe doesn’t move to stop, though, and neither does Wilardo—he remembers saying, _we don’t have all night_ , and Ashe saying, _maybe we do_.  
  
Maybe they do. One night without the Witch’s Heart on their minds—just once, before they turn away from each other, before one or both of them has to die.  
  
Just once, Wilardo repeats to himself, sinking into Ashe’s touch. One night.


End file.
